Mailbox

I see your writing on the envelope.
It is raining outside.
The envelope I slip under my shirt
as I run indoors.

The blue of your name is runny,
like puddles in a field
just before the spring.

I imagine your tongue licking the flap,
your lips made moist again
by virtue of the rain.

Many thousands of miles away
I miss you.
I kiss the flap,
open it tenderly,

and devour the words inside.